


More Than a Bed

by SnowSlayer



Category: Samurai Jack (Cartoon)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Sex, M/M, Minor Violence, Near Death, injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:00:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24986470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnowSlayer/pseuds/SnowSlayer
Summary: Francis struggles to make ends meet as a bounty hunter and finds himself under the wing of an assassin working his way through the ranks.
Relationships: franmouche
Comments: 2
Kudos: 1





	More Than a Bed

More Than A Bed

A mattress was usually too much to ask for. A bed of soggy boxes or bags of organic trash was more typical. It was easy, fast, and he had no sense of smell, so what did he care about what was in those bags? He was good at keeping hidden and could go most nights without being disturbed when he was on the streets.

Rolling off the makeshift bed of the day, Francis fished out his hat and fluffed the plume the best he could. He hopped he would come across some sort of creature the next time he trekked in through the forests to replace it. It was a small joy, yet he had grown quite attached to the hat from the moment he stole it. His swords were close by, ready to be drawn at a moment’s notice, even coming out of a heavy stasis (not that he really remembered what that felt like. Even when he got a cheap motel room, he could not let himself relax that much. The locks were so easily broken, he had learned the hard way very early).

His body was shoved and bumped and touched too many times in a way that led him to believe it was intentional. It was, and it still left him that empty sort of despair of worthlessness. The kind that lingered in his wires and refused to be displaced, even when a kind soul mentioned he looked nice or had gorgeous hair. A hollow smile touched his lips for a moment. Those had kept him going sometimes, although the thought that he had kept going too long always lingered, quiet most of the time, but too loud on those nights he unwillingly shared a bed. Shaking his head, and aggressively shoving a hand that groped at his hips, he pressed forward. Who had time for thinking when he had work to do?

* * *

Cross checking the public bounty list with the software he had bought, he marked a few likely in the area he planned to track, and tried not to think about what the software had cost. He had to remind himself that it had been worth it. That every minute that ticked into slow and torturous hours with the sadistic doctor was worth it, even the week it took to recover. It made getting bounties so much easier and more reliable than the first couple of years. It allowed him to do it full time. Mostly full time. Well, he considered the matter as he let the system check for updates on the bounties he had marked, full time bounty hunter and part time … other work. _Other_ felt like the perfect catch all. It meant he did not have to admit he was still doing what he was originally built for. It was just side work when he needed a repair, a bit of extra cash, or just a bed.

His eyes were drawn to the list of Aku’s Current Top Assassins. He appreciated the longer lists that showed more than just the top five. It had always been a source of entertainment when he had worked corners and now he still checked them, keeping his memory in shape by noting the movement of the different assassins. Typically they just showed the top five or so, which were the only ones anyone cared about, but he personally favored the top twenty. There was so much more variety. The top five just shuffled until one vanished, which meant they were dead or disgraced (although he vaguely recalled one instance where the assassin retired. It was almost unheard of, so he could not help but fancy it a rumor). There was so many more stories in the top 20 and so much more movement. He had watched a couple of names jump around from the low teens to eleven before dropping back down again in the endless dance.

One longer name caught his eye. It was a bittersweet smile as he read the name Scaramouche at the ninth spot. It was one of the few he remembered from the top fifty list he had once came across early in his bounty hunting career, and only because it had so many letters that it went from one side of the list to the other. The list had been his inspiration as he stood before it so many years ago, his shoulder heavily leaking oil from a dagger stabbed into it. All bounty hunters strived to be good enough to become an assassin. It meant fame, it meant respect, and it meant leeway in Aku’s eyes as the normal bounds of bounty hunting no longer applied. Jobs came with a broader scope and a bigger payout. The day Francis had seen that top fifty list, he did what so many others loved to do when no one was looking: write the next number underneath the list and add their own name. That day he had been number sixty-two, his name scrawled in his own oil on the wall. It would have been washed away when the cleaning crews came by, but for a moment, he could pretend he was on the list it gave him the motivation to stick with the career he had chosen after completing his first kill and escaping his former life.

He was turning away from the current top twenty list when the desire struck him. It … had been a long time since the last time. Glancing about, he moved a bit closer. He produced some extra oral lubricant and wet his fingers, writing his name as twenty-seven. There was no pang of pride as he looked over his name this time. His eyes were drawn up again to Scaramouche’s name, and jealousy hit him. Jealousy and disgust. Here it was, years later, and where was he? Still just writing his name on a wall. Turning away, he let the notion that the oral lubricant would dissipate under the afternoon sun in a few minutes anyway.

* * *

The roach scuttled back and forth across the floor. The dull blue eyes lazily watched it. A few more minutes and then he could sleep, he was sure. He had learned too much in the twenty years he worked for his creator and knew the signs too well. A sharp cry rang from his lips and then they were done. His “sponsor” muttered something nasty as he finally got up and left, dropping the keys on the ground as he left. The roach hurried out of the way of the footsteps before reclaiming its territory. Francis did not care if it was good or not anymore. All that mattered was that he got paid, or in this case, the keys to the motel room for two nights.

Forcing himself to his feet, he kicked his pants all the way off as he snatched the keys off the ground and double checked the lock on the door. No sense leaving his residence for the next two days a mess. He shrugged out of his shirt and gingerly placed his hat on top of it as he stepped into the sad excuse of a shower. Even on his metal feet, the tiles felt slimy. He let the cold water roll over his body for a long time. As usual, he was not even steaming when the session ended. Finally stepping out, he wished he had used hot water to hide his reflection. He forced a laugh at how ruffled and tired he looked. It was laugh or cry at how low he had fallen again, and the former felt easier. He knew his creator would have hated it and kept that image in mind. He folded his pants and left them next to the shirt on the sad excuse of a sink before allowing himself to collapse on the lumpy mattress.

He examined his left hand again, the plates no longer mangled, although the wiring underneath misfired and stung as the circuits tried to repair themselves. The medical school drop out had given him two options: fix the circuits or let them repair themselves. He was warned it would take a week, but he figured two days would be enough. He already could not afford to fix the circuits and he certainly could not afford a week off. Two days would have to be enough.

* * *

He landed on the ground, hard. A sizzling electrical pain shot up his left arm and through his shoulder as he caught himself with both hands. It reminded him that his left hand had never quite been the same since the injury several months ago. He went to shove himself up when the pair of red heeled boots stepped in front of him.

“Excuse you, babe.” The voice was sharp and dangerous. Francis merely sighed, figuring he had probably bumped into the bot when he was shoved to the ground and would get told off. “I believe you owe this fine bot an apology.” Rolling his eyes at how self-important this bot evidently though he was, Francis was shocked to hear another voice stutter out an apology as it retreated. A hand dropped down into his field of vision.

He was pulled up almost effortlessly. At once, the bot was taking his hat and examining it.

“No, no, no babe! This simply won’t do! Are you in a hurry? You have to get this fixed.” The tall bot did not listen to anything after Francis said he had time. Francis could not even protest he had no money. Worst case was that he would just have to abandon the hat wherever this bot dragged him to.

Although he was merely towed in an excited wake, his fans had kicked on full throttle as his left hand was secured in the taller robot’s hand. It would come, that sharp jolt followed by the electrical pain as his hand was jerked and squeezed. He braced himself, ready for the worst of it.

Yet, it never came. His hand was so carefully guarded that it never hurt. They came to a stop in front of a store Francis was positive he was too poor to even look at. “I can’t,” Francis protested. He hoped he would find another bounty that had a nice hat as he let his hand slide away from the taller robot’s hand.

“It’s on me, babe. Come celebrate! I’ve just gotten up to the top seven!” Francis blinked, realizing who it was. Scaramouche. He felt that bitter pang hit him again. He was whisked inside before he could protest again. Keeping his arms firmly at his side, as the shopkeeper glared at his ruffled appearance and was one step away from reporting him for theft, he stood and touched nothing. Scaramouche paid it no mind, pleasantly demanding a new plume and a cleaning. Once the hat was out of his possession, he all but danced around the store, glancing at what was available. Francis held perfectly still.

“You’re too tense, babe!” Scaramouche grinned down at him as he resituated the hat back on his head and smoothed down a few stray locks of hair. It looked better than when he had originally obtained it. There was no mention of the bill to him as he was guided out the door.

“Take care, babe! I’ve got people to kill and a samurai to catch!” Francis stared after him. He only started moving again when the shop keeper threatened to have him fined for loitering and bringing down the value of the shop.

* * *

A mattress! A whole mattress to himself, no strings attached. He glanced down the alley and pulled it away from where it was haphazardly leaning against the wall, tucking it as close to the dumpster as he could get it. He gingerly took off his hat, hating that the bright, white plume had already taken a grungy look and the bold red had faded again. He had tried to keep it clean the last week since Scaramouche had had it cleaned. It truly was the nicest thing he owned. A pit of regret formed in his chest as he had no choice but to stow it behind the dumpster. He tried not to think of what was getting on it. Still, it was safer there in case he was attacked while he slept. A fortress of discarded bags and boxes was erected and he settled in for the night. The swords were drawn and rested by his head, always ready.

He glanced up and tsked as he noticed another bug crawl across his hat. He flicked it away before settling down and trying to will himself into a light sleep. He had a new lead and a long few days coming.

The light stasis was interrupted by the sound of voices too close. He curled up smaller, hoping he would remain unseen. The cry was barely held in as a heavy bag was hurled on top of him. Well, he supposed he was good at hiding or someone just really had it out for him. Once it was quiet again, he shoved the fallen walls of his fortress off of him and retrieved his hat, tenderly brushing the dust and dirt from it (and squashing the damned bug that was trying to make its home in the plume).

It was earlier than he had planned, but he was too wound up to sleep after the rude awakening. He strolled through the streets, making note of all the places his target would be able to run or hide. It was already a risky target, so he wanted to be prepared. The city cleaning crew shouldered past him as he kept walking. The short top five list caught his eye. The wall had just been cleaned. He could …

He squatted down to dip his fingers in the dark grime. He scrawled the six and his name before there was a shout. The cleaning crew charged towards him as he bolted away. When he had stopped running, he forced himself to focus on the surroundings. Still, he could not help the grin at the idea that his name was above Scaramouche’s for once. Well, they might be tied with how hast he seemed to be clawing his way to the top.

Shaking his head, he smothered down the sob. It did not matter what number he wrote next to his name. He was nothing. He could not even revel in the fact that this was the highest he had gotten his name. Scaramouche had deserved his spot. He had likely worked and just honed his skills. Francis deserved whatever he had, knowing that he just was not cut to be a bounty hunter, let alone an assassin. Trying to quell himself, he did remind himself how far he had come. Perhaps the writing on the wall meant something the higher he got to put himself. He was going after his greatest target, and he thought he had a chance for once. Plus, he had just slept on a mattress all his own. That certainly meant something. He just had to keep pushing. Steeling himself, he went to search for his target.

* * *

The burnt oil bubbled over his lips as he staggered against the wall. He had been a fool. He had wasted two weeks on a target he was so ill equipped to handle and ended up with malware to boot. Squeezing his eyes closed, he let the wave of pain pass and swallowed hard. He needed medical attention. He needed to refuel. Getting somewhere nice to stay was not even an option at this point. Once he could move again, he pushed himself away from the wall and took in his surroundings. There was no one here who would want him in this state. In his heyday, he could have serviced them, but now, covered in his own oil and in his tattered clothes, he knew he was in the wrong part of town. He was out of his league and …

Coolant spilled over his lips. He tumbled to his knees before he managed to shove himself back up. A shady doctor might be willing to trade, he hoped. If he could just get another mile down the road, he could find someone with lower quality tastes…

His shoulder was grabbed, yet he still went for his broken dagger. He whirled out of the hold. Oil spewed past his lips again as he pointed the handle and metal shards at … Scaramouche? The tall robot laughed, as if pleased at his response. Francis lowered his arm after a moment.

“Heya, babe. No luck with your bounty?” Francis shook his head before he was pressed on the who-what-when-where.

“He’s way out of your league, babe! Well, judging from your record, most of who you get are rated higher than you.” Scaramouche tapped as his chin as he scanned and studied Francis. “You’re crazy, babe! I like it.”

Francis did not like to be pushed, although he had resigned himself to it long ago. The hand on his back kept him walking in the direction Scaramouche wanted him to.

“Hang a left at the end of this block. Go two more blocks and you’ll find a clinic. It’s run by a great gal, babe. She’ll patch ya up and have ya back up and running in no time. I just saw her a couple days ago myself. Tell her to tack it onto my bill, babe.” He gave him another push in the direction he indicated and waved.

Francis did not stop this time. He kept staggering along until the clinic. It did not matter who was going to pay. His processing was deteriorating and this would at least give him a place to stay, even if it meant being arrested for being unable to pay later. His system felt like it was failing, although he figured it was just because his body was in more pain than usual. As he reached the clinic, the door was whisked open.

“Luscious locks? We were expecting you.”

* * *

It was the best two days of sleep he had gotten in a long time. Granted, he had mostly been knocked out with a gentle wavelength running through his system as he was treated and repaired. The circuits in his left hand had also been replaced and he could move his wrist without any sort of painful jolt. How long had it been since that? His hat, freshly cleaned again, and a new shirt, had been laid on the table next to the hospital bed. The hollow feeling was back in his chest again as he pulled on the clothing. It fit perfectly, albeit showing off more of his chest than he wanted. Scaramouche must have measured him to get it altered. His body model was unique, and he rarely found something that fit him well, barring the outfits his creator had custom made for him.

As he checked out, he tried to brace himself for the debt. No one would possibly pay for…

“You’re free to go.” Francis blinked. Well, then if his debt was not to be paid here, he knew where to go. His request to see Scaramouche was practically denied. He convinced the receptionist to humor him and call the room. When there was no answer, he was kicked out of the lobby and sulked over to the far side of the road. He paced the streets until it got dark, keeping on the move to avoid any further loitering charges. He was stalking, and he should be working, yet he hated the growing debt. One day, Scaramouche was going to collect, and he would rather it be now than later with interest.

“I hear you’re bad at recuperating, babe!” Francis stiffened as Scaramouche was suddenly by his side. He had not even heard him approaching. He supposed this was just one of the reasons why Scaramouche had worked his way up the charts.

“I owe you,” Francis mumbled as he let Scaramouche wrap an arm around his shoulder and pull him back to the hotel he had tried to infiltrate earlier.

“I’d like to upgrade my room to one with two beds, babe,” Scaramouche beamed at the receptionist.

“It’s that obvious?” The grin was turned down towards him as Scaramouche squeezed his shoulder. Scaramouche took them first to his old room to gather his belongings and then to the new room.

Francis found himself almost missing the roaches. The room was too clean, too perfect. He was nudged inside just enough to close the door before Scaramouche let him stand by himself. His eyes were drawn to the kitchen. He had never stayed somewhere with a full-fledged kitchen like this. Maybe he had a microwave in one room once. Forcing himself through the kitchen and sitting area, he took off his boots and hat, taking the first bed closest to the door and laying on his back, his hands palm up at his side.

“Do whatever you like.” He closed his eyes and let his head sink onto the pillows that were too soft, too much like the ones he used to be allowed to lay against. It took a few moments before the weight was over top of him. Knees straddled his hips as the fingers worked the buttons open on his shirt. The shirt was eased off of his shoulders and pulled off before his pants were undone. He raised his hips as he was left bare.

The kiss pressed to his lips was too languid, too superficial. He opened his mouth as expected and Scaramouche pulled away unexpectedly. He opened his eyes halfway as Scaramouche climbed off of him. The comforter that had been folded at the foot of the bed was pulled over him. He waited. He waited for Scaramouche to climb in with him, waited for him to get back on top of him. He waited, and watched as Scaramouche undressed and climbed into his own bed.

“Good night, babe. Sleep well.”

* * *

He could not count the number of times he had wanted to just cut his hair off. He had held the dagger, well, his old dagger, against the strands many nights. The only reason he talked himself out of it was because it would make him less desirable. He hated having to rely on his past, but he could not cut it just yet.

It was constantly grabbed and yanked, the pressure features sending a sharp sting through his head. He hated his hair the most when the hand tangled in his matted hair belonged to someone fast asleep and disgustingly wrapped around him. They did not even have the decency to get out of his personal space.

Another whimper left him, which was placated with a kiss pressed to the back of his head. He closed his eyes as the tangles and knots were eased out. It had been so long since he had taken proper care of it. He did not even carry a brush with him anymore. Why Scaramouche had a brush was beyond him, but he had been diligently working for the two hours. Individual strands sometimes had to be untied, and knots undone ever so carefully.

He had not expected to run into Scaramouche again. He was top five now. He had no use for small fry like him. After they had parted ways over a month ago, he figured that would be it. Armed with a new dagger and the dead body of a bounty they had hunted (mostly Scaramouche. Francis had felt rather useless throughout the ordeal), Francis had set off again with a comfortable chunk of change in his account.

Francis had just turned in his bounty when the purple clad assassin appeared before him again.

“Need a room for the night, babe?” Of course he had. Well, he could have gotten a cheap one, but by the time he argued, Scaramouche was already dragging him towards the nearest hotel. Scaramouche ordered them some food, having to send the staff out to gather something less rich and less flavorful for Francis since he had threatened to puke on Scaramouche’s coat if he ate the hotel food. It started with Scaramouche picking out a twig and some leaves. Once the food arrived, he immediately sent them on another task: bring him back conditioner.

Francis did not eat while Scaramouche worked. He was never really hungry when Scaramouche was around. He just sat, trying to keep still, trying to keep quiet. The brush was finally starting to move smoothly through his hair, then there were fingers stroking through it. Francis shut his eyes, letting the robot have his fun. Now that there were no tangles, it was a gentle tug every now and then, or the occasional fingertips gliding down the back of his neck and down his back.

He never complained as the work continued. How could he? Once Scaramouche was satisfied, he offered to get Francis more food since their meal had grown cold.

“It’s a waste. I’ll just eat it as it is,” Francis insisted. He caught sight of the intricate braid as he moved to go and sit back on his bed. Maybe, just maybe, having long hair was not so bad.

* * *

He was being violently shaken. It took him a long time to become focused. He had been dead to the world, happily lost in a deep stasis the moment his head hit the pillow the night before. The wide eyes that met his made him flinch back.

“You gave me a fright, babe! I’ve been trying to wake you for ten minutes!” Francis was going to laugh it off and say he was catching up for the last ten years. Then it hit him.

He froze as he suddenly recalled the all the times he had woken up as someone tried to sneak up on him. This was what was supposed to happen. He was supposed to not be aware. He was supposed to allow…

How he was built…

This was wrong. He should not…

Scaramouche was not supposed to be this.

“Are you alright, babe?”

Non. Non, everything was wrong. He had let himself fall into stasis with a … ? A client? A … something else?

Francis sobbed. He squeezed his eyes closed and sobbed again. Scaramouche hugged him close, pulling him into his lap as he rocked him slowly, steam heavily rolling off his body.

“It’s alright, babe. I’ve got you. I’ve…”

Nothing.

Still nothing.

“… hear me, babe? You overheated. Guess I got you too flustered, hm?” Francis heard the smirk before he could open his eyes. The steam was still rolling off of him, despite the ice Scaramouche poured onto the bed.

“Non … vvvff. Haf … Have t-to lee … leave.” Francis stuttered out as his vocal processors tried to right themselves. He pushed at the robot, shook his head to get the hand off of his head. Scaramouche backed away, standing at the foot of the bed. Francis managed to get to his feet, staggering as his body tried to catch up.

“I can get you your own room if you’d rather, babe,” Scaramouche suggested, taking a step closer. Francis backed up. He could not run. He would not be fast enough. He needed to be out. Everything was wrong and he … Scaramouche… He spun towards the window and ran at it.

“Babe! Wait!”

Freedom. It took much too long to hit the ground. When he finally impacted, as the joints in his legs snapped and metal plates broke, he remembered they were not on the first floor this time. He let out a strangled laugh as he rolled to his stomach. How could he be so stupid? Was his mind so clouded that he could not remember the different times he had spent the night with Scaramouche over the last few months?

He had only pulled his mangled body a few feet along the asphalt when there was a much gentler tap of heels on the pavement. He glanced to his left as Scaramouche easily took two more steps to his fallen body.

“The elevator might have been a little easier, babe,” Scaramouche chuckled. Francis kept clawing at the road, dragging himself along.

“Why won’t you do this right?” Francis shouted at him as he collapsed on the road. He could feel the oil steadily staining through his pants.

“Well, babe, I’m kind of scared to tell you now.” His voice was quieter now as he sat down next to Francis. Francis curled his arms under his head, resting on them as he glared at the taller robot. His eyes slipped closed as Scaramouche began stroking his hair. “Considering that you froze up when I cleaned your hat, offered your body when I gave you a room, overheated at the thought I was concerned about you, and threw yourself out a three story window at the thought of letting me get you flustered, I don’t know if I can tell you, babe.”

“If you had just done what you’re supposed to,” Francis sobbed, moving so he could push the gentle hand off of him, “This wouldn’t have happened!” He could not move his legs at all. He wished with all his might he could just stand up and walk away. Just keep walking until he was anywhere else. There was a sigh above him.

“I like you, babe. I like you a lot. And what if I had told you? What would you do? Throw yourself on me and make love until I couldn’t move? Try to kill me? Tell me you never wanted to see me again? I’d love if it was the first two, but I really hope it’s not the third option. If it is, so be it. I’ll honor whatever you want me to do, babe.

“Non. Non, you can’t like me,” Francis hissed. He went to push himself up again, oil spilling over his lips before his arms gave out.

“Sure I can, babe. I’m top five now! I can basically do whatever I’d like,” he laughed. “Tell ya what, since this is all _my fault_ , how about I take you to the hospital? It wouldn’t be much of a fair fight if you can’t even stand.” Francis made a noise of protest as he felt the coolant creeping up in his throat. Scaramouche stood, stepping back to the initial impact with the ground and gathered his pieces. He pushed them into Francis’ hands before picking up his body. There was no more struggle left in him.

* * *

It was only because he owed him. His legs had been in working order for two weeks and they were both _coincidently_ (although his mind supplied conveniently) in the same area. There was distance this time. The purple coat was sorely visible at the café across the street as he approached the location to turn in the bounty that writhed in the ropes. He was worth double live, so Francis had taken great pains to make it happen. Scaramouche’s back was to him as he approached, but he had a hunch Scaramouche knew he was there.

He could have went in, left the body, and left the same way he came, head down, oblivious. Instead, he approached, and as expected, Scaramouche was turning to greet him before he said a word.

“I still don’t know,” Francis murmured. That was how they had parted ways. He never knew anything, except that this was wrong and the only excuse was that he was in debt to the assassin. They did the usual dance: two beds, two types of food, a new hair style.

“You want to do more.” He did not bother phrasing it like a question.

“Sure, babe. Do you?”

“I don’t know. Whatever you want.” He was studied thoughtfully.

“Is it in your programming to cuddle, babe?”

“I don’t … I don’t do that.”

“Do you want to try, babe?”

They had not undressed yet. It was early, but they did turn off the lights. He was held against the taller robot. His arms were around the other’s back, head against his chest. A soft kiss was pressed to the top of his head. It was wrong. Francis fidgeted, his body wanting to go through the regular routine as quick as possible so that he could have the usual reward of sleep. He was only held if the session had been so hard and fast his bedmate had exhausted himself and they dropped into recharged behind him once they were done using him.

“This isn’t right…”

“How can I make it right, babe?” He was silent. His hips jolted forwards before Scaramouche gently held him in place. That was it. It was … better. It was more natural to be held in position and he found himself stilling. It was how he was supposed to be: pliable and held in position. Once he had settled, Scaramouche’s hand moved from his hip to resting gingerly on his back. Non, that would not work. Yet, he was not supposed to fidget. He needed to know what to do. The fidgeting brought back the steady hand and he kept cycling through the fidgeting to be stilled and back to pushing against him when he was not held in place.

“How about this, babe?” Francis sighed in relief as the arms tightened around him and he was pulled on top of Scaramouche. Instantly, the content feeling subsided as the arms became too loose, too vague, too …

“Non. It’s … I’m not meant for this.” Scaramouche tightened the arms around him again, kissing at his forehead before rolling to his other side. He pressed on top of Francis, settling his weight across him. Francis hummed, a sense of normalcy sinking in. He waited a long time beneath Scaramouche. He waited, and kept still, knowing it would be soon, even if he was usually facing the other way. And then he tired of waiting.

“I’m getting tired,” he prompted, wanting it to move it along. It backfired as Scaramouche rolled off of him completely, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead before Francis sat up.

“Sleep well, babe.” Francis nodded, rolling to his feet and sliding under the blanket on his own bed and hating how inflexible he was.

* * *

The cold water ran over him as he leaned his back against the edge of the tub, his head against his knees. This was supposed to be his specialty. Twenty years of it full time and another handful of years doing it on the side, and still, he had done everything wrong. Wrong position, wrong action, wrong! He had even been steaming afterwards. Him! He never … not since he had left, and then, only when there was too many…

The steam had stopped rolling off his body by the time he had actually cleaned off. It had taken longer than it should have, the actions on loop in his mind. He just had to sit down for a while. Had to figure it out. Figure out why this bot did things so out of line.

He figured Scaramouche was tired of trying to fight Francis’ programming to cuddle. It was not working. The kissing was usually okay. It was better when Scaramouche took the lead. He could hold Francis and pepper kisses where he liked, and it was fine. It was tolerable. They never transgressed to future action, but Francis at least knew his place. When they were done, he would be let up and he would curl up in his own bed.

Tonight was a true test of his usefulness to Scaramouche. It was a chance to prove his worth and finally offer repayment. Francis hated to recount just how many nights he owed the assassin. They started, and nothing went right.

It was too slow, too gentle, too … pleasurable. He jolted at the memory. How dare he enjoy it like he did? And in a position he had so little experience in.

“Don’t rust in there, babe!” Francis jolted again, checking his internal clock to see he had been sitting there for over an hour. He forced himself up, switching off the water and wringing out his hair. He seriously considered sleeping on the bathroom floor. It was certainly large enough for him to stretch out comfortably. Although it would be a waste not to sleep on a bed.

“Want me to hold you for a while before bed, babe?” Scaramouche posed as Francis stepped back to the main room. He nodded absently. He was supposed to agree. They assumed the position from before. Scaramouche ran his fingers through his hair and down his back as Francis rested on top of him.

“I’m sorry,” Francis murmured against his bare chest.

“It was the best I’ve ever had, babe!” Francis was quiet for a long time. When he finally felt his eye lids growing heavy, he squirmed his way out from Scaramouche’s arms.

Curling up on his own bed, and rolling away from the gentle glance, he muttered to the far wall.

“It was the best I’ve had, too.”

* * *

It was taking too long. He had been still, had played the part, and now he wanted his bed. He had earned it.

“Get off.” The command was low, unlike him. “Get out.”

“You’re so warm, baby.” He was hugged tight. He elbowed back, hard. As he was shoved off the bed, he took to his feet.

“Go,” he demanded again. He ducked the first swing, dodged the second and launched a counter attack. His fist collided and he bought himself a few steps. He thought that he had got his point across when the weapon was drawn. He staggered back as the electric jolt surged through his body. The punch dislocated his jaw as his head slammed into the wall. He slid to the ground. There was a parting kick to his lower abdomen before the door was slammed.

He sat alone. Bringing shaking hands up, he jerked his lower jaw back into place. Pushing himself up, he could not help himself. He slammed his foot down, crushing the roach as it scuttled past him. He swallowed down a sob, ripping off the soiled sheets and threw himself down on _his_ mattress.

It had been a long month. He had not expected to ever feel lonely. He had enjoyed being alone and was supposed to enjoy it. A night in his own room was the best he could hope for. Even though he could reach the far wall in four paces, the room felt too big. Too empty.

Three more days, he reminded himself, hugging his legs close to him as he curled in a ball. They were set to meet a few towns over. He would finish tracking his low life bounty the next day, and with luck, Scaramouche would have displaced the number four assassin by the time they met.

He just missed the routine of it, he assured himself. And he was tired. It was the only time he could sleep deeply.

* * *

The thumb traced over his jaw. It was still a bit crooked; Francis had noticed the next time he looked into the mirror. The frame was bent since the joint itself had realigned correctly. There was no offer to have it fixed, and Francis was grateful for that.

“I … I missed you.” It must have been the right thing to say, as Scaramouche pressed his lips to his. He had to fight the instinct to press into it, to deepen it. When he took it as it was, it lasted longer, only broken when the knock at the door signaled their dinner had arrived.

He listened attentively as Scaramouche recounted his tales. He was silent when the stories ended.

“I’m pretty tired, babe,” Scaramouche lied. Francis could tell Scaramouche’s eyes were too bright, too alert, unlike his own. He accepted a last kiss to his forehead before they untangled limbs. Francis took off his shirt and folded it, leaving it next to his hat. He bid Scaramouche a good night after the assassin had stripped off his own coat and undershirt.

Stasis would not come. He thoughts would not be quelled even as he tried to force them aside for an hour. He suddenly felt alone. Biting at his lower lip, he glanced over his shoulder. The body in the bed was unmoving, facing away from him. His system was running too hard, too fast. His fans, though quiet, were still whirling too fast for the lack of activity.

He should not. He should not, and would be punished. It was wrong. It was so wrong and he could not stop himself.

He perched on the very edge of Scaramouche’s bed, practically half on, half off the bed. Truthfully, he was not so sure that he would not instantly roll off the second he fell into stasis, smashing his head on the bedside table as he fell onto the, admittedly, plush carpet.

It was just for a few minutes, he reminded himself, not for the night. Once he was calmer, he would move back. He just …

He gasped as the arms were suddenly around and pulling him onto his back. His body tightened as he prepared himself to be …

“You’re too jumpy to be sleeping there, babe. You’d have fallen off if I so much as sighed in my sleep.” The arms retreated and he could feel Scaramouche rolling back over to face away from him. Francis forced his fans to a lower setting, now that the shock had worn off. A pillow was absently pushed against the side of his head, and he sat up a bit to readjust it. It was … better now. A few minutes later, he glanced over as Scaramouche was getting out from under the sheet. He moved to Francis’ bed, and Francis felt his spirits sink. He squeezed his eyes closed, pretending to be asleep as he heard the rustling of the covers on his bed. He was an idiot. He knew better. He knew better, yet –

His eyes snapped open as the comforter was laid on top of him. An apologetic kiss was pressed to his forehead.

“Didn’t mean to wake you, babe. I know you like the weight of the blanket when you’re recharging,” he murmured lazily. Right, Francis had mentioned that once offhandedly. He had noted Scaramouche only slept with the light sheet. Scaramouche walked back around to his side, pulling the comforter that was still folded at the foot of his bed over Francis as well. Settling back under the single sheet, Scaramouche bid him good night again.

“Go to sleep before you wear your fans out, babe!”

* * *

“You don’t have to get two bed anymore,” Francis murmured into the crook of Scaramouche’s neck.

“Mm, I know, babe, but it means we get two comforters, although I suppose I could just ask for two,” Scaramouche mumbled back. “Besides, I like that you choose my bed over yours.”

“I’d still have the choice to sleep on the floor,” Francis added. Scaramouche barked a laugh.

“I also like to think I’m a much better alternative than the floor, babe!” Francis agreed. He snuggled in a little closer, fidgeting a bit.

“You know you can just ask, babe. My answer’s yes.” He knew that. He knew that in every circuit.

“I … I can’t.” Scaramouche hummed against the top of his head.

“Should I ask, babe?”

“Please.” Scaramouche rolled onto his back, pulling Francis on top of him. He ran his long fingers down Francis’ back.

“Do you want to go down on me with that burning passion until the sun comes up and they’re banging on our door to tell us to keep it down? Or do you want to make love to that soft and sweet melody?”

“You are loud,” Francis chuckled softly, remembering the noise violation they had gotten the week before. “The second option, please.”

“Can’t help that you’re so perfect, babe. You know how to make me sing,” he grinned at him before kissing his head again. “And I’m glad. That’s my favorite, babe.”

He had gotten a long song out of him. It was gentle and drawn out, leaving him satisfied as Scaramouche gasped below him. He nestled under Scaramouche’s jaw again. The afterglow wore off as the usual paranoia kicked back in.

“Scaramouche?” his voice trembled with the confession he needed to make. “I’m … I’m not faithful to you,” he choked out, waiting to be shoved to the floor.

“I know, babe,” Scaramouche murmured, and eased them to their side. “Would you still do it if you weren’t short on cash?”

“Non. I wouldn’t. I … not on purpose.” He was pulled tight to the assassin’s frame. His own body trembled until he remembered nothing else and dropped into a restless stasis. The sun streamed in the window when his eyes flickered open. He was still comfortably crushed against Scaramouche.

“You never had to do all of this for me,” Francis murmured as Scaramouche came back online.

“I know, babe, but I _wanted_ to.” The lazy smile lingered after he kissed the top of his head. “I can’t help that I like you so much.”

“I think I like you, too.”

* * *

“I can’t believe you went after the Samurai all by yourself, babe!” The hand cradled his chin, holding him still as Scaramouche stole a kiss when the medical bots were not looking.

“I couldn’t let you be first to everything, Mon Cher,” Francis gave a half-hearted shrug.

“Babe, if I weren’t an assassin, I’d sure as hell sponsor you. Can’t believe no one else has considering how many high level bounties you’ve brought in. I’ve been putting out feelers for you with other potential sponsors, so I’m sure it’s just a matter of time before one picks you up.” Scaramouche was scolded as he tried to press a longer kiss to Francis’ lips.

“I was questioned on why I had you on my bills so often, babe,” Scaramouche explained, contenting himself to pulling one of Francis’ hands into his own. He kissed at the knuckles as he received another glare. “I told them I had to bring you in today because I thought you’d be a _little_ more flexible than that in the bedroom!”

“Scaramouche!” he protested as he got caught up in the contagious laugh. He groaned as he tried to stop, the repairing circuits in his lower abdomen from where he had been cleaved in half burning viciously. “You’re going to get yourself black listed.”

“Meaning what, babe?”

“Meaning you won’t be able to hire anyone like me.”  
“Doesn’t matter, babe. I don’t want to be with anyone else except you.” He squeezed Scaramouche’s hand and turned away. He winced as his damaged fans tried to run too hard. The lead medical bot shooed Scaramouche away from his side as he rolled next to Francis. Scaramouche merely tsked and danced around the table, ducking around the monitor to hold his other hand.

“While we were fighting, I was worried I would never see you again.” Scaramouche leaned in to kiss at his jaw, despite the noise of protest the medical bot made. “I was so scared. I thought that …” a sob cut through his words.

“Shh, hey what matters is that you’re okay now, babe. You’re safe.” Francis nodded, squeezing his eyes closed to try and keep himself together.

“I’m … I’m glad you found me.” The feeling of despair and regret from the last memory he had of the fight bloomed in his chest. “I didn’t want to fight, but I knew I had no choice. He’s a killer and I knew I could not out run him. There … there was a child with him, too. He must have kidnapped him and I would not have been able to live with myself if I didn’t try to save him.” He tried not think about the child now.

“I’m glad I found you, too, babe, and not a moment too spare. They wanted to pronounce you dead when I dragged you in.” Francis nodded even as something nagged at him. He would have to ask later how bad everything had been. He remembered it had been raining, and his internal processors were so scrambled he had no idea how long it had even been since the fight. Lucky did not begin to describe the possibility that he was still alive. What bothered him was _how_ Scaramouche knew.

“How did you find me?”

“You sent me a distress signal, babe, and a message. I had some higher powers pinpoint exactly where it came from and teleported out to find you.”

“Oh.” It was all gone from his memory. All the messages they had sent were gone, although most of his responses was just a quick note that he was still alive and fine. He could recall what some of the cheesier messages had said, but the actual message was gone. “I don’t remember it.”

“I’m going to delete it, babe. That’s not how I wanted you to tell me.” Francis nodded. He doubted he was coherent enough to send any decent message during the fight with the Samurai.

“When will they release me?”

“Probably tomorrow, babe.” He was silent. Thankfully Scaramouche asked the question for him.

“You want me to spend the night, babe?”

“I suppose you’ll figure out a way to climb into this hospital bed with me, huh?”

“I’d have had them double check to make sure there was no processing damage if you thought anything else, babe!”

* * *

“I swear to Aku, babe, I will handcuff you to the bed!”

“Wouldn’t be the first time that happened.” Francis shrugged as he tried push the comforters off of him and stand up. Scaramouche was at his side too quickly.

“I’ll have to torture you then. I’ll just kiss you slowly and cuddle you all day. Can your circuits handle that, babe?” Francis hummed at the thought.

“I’m starting to like that, Mon Cher.”

“Then you’ve bested me, babe!” Scaramouche flung himself along Francis’ outstretched legs, pining them down.

“Oh, get off,” although they both knew he did not mean it.

“How else am I supposed to get you to rest, babe?” Scaramouche protested, climbing further onto the bed and leaning up to wrap his arms around Francis’ chest.

“You’re so dramatic!”

“Oh, now _I’m_ the dramatic one, babe?” The assassin had a point.

“You know I can take care of myself. You’re missing so much work!”

“I told my boss I needed some time off to tend to something important, babe,” Scaramouche mumbled into his shoulder.

“Something important? What?” There was no answer. “Me?” It was a strained question.

“Who else, babe?”

* * *

He walked to the address Scaramouche had messaged him. The message earlier asked if he had time for a quick side quest, and he had accepted. Studying the sign, he sent a ping back to announce he had found the … café?

‘You have to try the desserts, babe. They finally captured a better version of sweet. You can’t find anything else like it.’

‘Then let’s go together when you’re done,’ Francis insisted.

‘That’ll be months, babe!’ And Francis smiled at the exasperation embedded into the message. ‘You’re right there, babe. Try it first.’

‘I don’t need to,’ Francis messaged back.

‘I’ve already preordered one. It’d be a waste if you didn’t go get one, babe.’ He considered insisting that Scaramouche cancel the order. Instead he went inside, glancing over the menu. He tried to ignore the prices, suddenly thankful that he never had to see how much Scaramouche was spending on him at the hotel. He had never had chocolate, so he settled on that. He mumbled the order number and accepted the bowl. Settling himself in a corner, he sent a picture to Scaramouche, receiving an almost instant ping of excitement.

It was too good. He picked at it slowly, savoring it. Scaramouche had the patience to wait a few minutes to ask how he enjoyed it.

‘You’re too good to me, Mon Cher.’

‘You know I love you, babe.’ Any appetite he had melted away. He did. He had known for a while. When he did not respond, a second message came. ‘And I love to spoil you.’ There was no follow-up after that, no ping of raw emotion to check on him.

It took him an hour to work up the nerve to send back the two words. ‘I know.’ That conversation had dropped. Scaramouche checked in later that night. He smiled as he was bid a restful slumber. It was pleasant to know Scaramouche kept up with the time zone he was in, although he wished he could do the same. He had no information on Scaramouche’s location.

The next week was devoted to his latest target. He had been unsure if he was suited to the task, but Scaramouche kept talking up his skills, so he kept on the chase. It was a comfortable journey through the neighboring woods, until he finally killed the killer terrorizing the county.

Before he left, he found himself stopping back at the café. He let himself splurge, picking something he thought Scaramouche would like to vet it. They would have to stop here next time they happened to be in the area.

* * *

He had not meant to tackle the assassin, yet there’s still a part of him that feels proud of catching him off guard with his display of affection. They had met in the city as planned. Upon catching sight of the purple coat (he was positive now that Scaramouche was just letting him approach first to boast his esteem, and he could not help but admit it was working), he sprinted towards him. As soon as Scaramouche turned around, he had dived into him, expecting to be caught and hugged. He knew Scaramouche had the strength. Scaramouche’s eyes went wide and they both tumbled to the ground.

His apology kept getting cut off with kisses. After a while, he gave in, kissing him back as the rest of the civilians scoffed and complained.

“Dinner first, babe, then we’ll get a room,” Scaramouche promised, pulling them to their feet. His hand was secured in Scaramouche’s and the time they had spent apart felt less. Francis refused as usual the upscale food Scaramouche tried to offer, instead opting for something closer to what he usually ate. Scaramouche’s presence scared away enough people they could take a seat on a bench. How could it not when he was the number three assassin?

“Next time we go back to the café you recommended, you have to try the limoncello. I think you’ll like it,” Francis murmured. Scaramouche beamed at him. As the details of the three-month mission were still shrouded in mystery, Francis recalled the bounties he had pursued. It never seemed as interesting as the stories Scaramouche told. He still had a captive audience.

He was not fully relaxed until they were finally alone in the one bed penthouse suite.

“Please don’t jump out the window again, babe,” Scaramouche murmured against his neck as his hands explored down Francis’ back. “I added you to my insurance policy, but I really don’t want to scrape you off the sidewalk, especially after you fall twenty stories.” Francis swore he would not. He had noticed that all the other rooms had never been above two stories.

“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be,” he sighed, settling his weight on top of Scaramouche. He was so gloriously touched starved from the last three months, save for the tussle with a bounty that was nowhere near what he usually did to secure a room. It had helped that Scaramouche seemed to have acquired a lot of free rooms at chains Francis seemed to be hunting by every other week at least. It had taken a lot of pressure off of his financials. For once, he wanted the hands on him, the lips against him, the feel of a body next to him (even if the position was strange. He supposed it was the only one he had been in since last time he saw Scaramouche).

He did not want it slow. It was too long since the last time.

“Please. Let me do this for you.”

“I’m yours, babe!”

He had made him sing. He had enjoyed it, too, as that was the stipulation, although he could not help but keep quiet, softly moaning into the crook of Scaramouche’s neck. Despite how many times Scaramouche told him he sounded beautiful moaning his name, it was still a processing trait he had _yet_ to overcome.

The second song had been shorter, faster. And when it was done, he rolled off of him, cradling Scaramouche’s still head in his lap as he waited for him to come back online and basking in the fact he had caused him to reboot from all the pleasure he bestowed on him.

“Let me return the favor, babe,” the soft words came nearly five minutes later.

“Please, let me spoil you for once. It’s what I want.” The irrational fear Scaramouche would deny him crept into his circuitry.

“I suppose I’ll have to let you spoil me more often, babe.”

* * *

The window slid open, and Francis glanced over as Scaramouch leaned out.

“Don’t worry, I can survive a two story head first drop if I fall,” he chuckled, holding on tightly to the ledge as his feet dangled above the sidewalk.

“The bed was feeling lonely, so I just came to see where you were, babe,” Scaramouche murmured.

“I was coming in soon. Just needed some fresh air to think.” He slid closer to the open window and took Scaramouche’s hand as he swung his legs back into their room.

“Whatcha thinking about, babe?”

“Us.” He reached up towards Scaramouche’s shoulders to get him to lean forward so that he could plant a kiss on the underside of his jaw. He guided them both over to the bed, not ready to crawl back under the covers as he sat at the foot of the bed. Scaramouche leaned forward to stroke his fingers along Francis’ cheek.

“What are we?” The fingers never hesitated, simply providing a soft comfort.

“Whatever you want us to be, babe.”

“What do you want us to be?” He pressed, keeping steady eye contact. Much to his dismay, the eyes across from him pinched up into pleased triangles much like they did when Scaramouche knew victory was at hand.

“Whatever makes you happy, babe!”

“That’s not fair! You can’t keep dodging the question.” Francis found himself pouting. The hand slid up to run through his well brushed hair.

“I’m Aku’s second favorite assassin, babe. I can practically do whatever I want!” As Francis finally adverted his gaze, Scaramouche leaned forward to press an apology kiss to his nose. “Francis,” and his voice grew serious. “We can be anything. We can be everything or nothing or something in between. I’ll love you not matter what you want, babe. And if you decide that this is all too much and you’re done with me or that I’m not the one for you, I’ll still look back fondly on this time. I’ve never regretted meeting you and I’ll never regret it.” He did not respond. He let himself be pulled into a loose embrace as the words echoed in his head.

“I’m not supposed to be with someone like this,” he muttered long after Scaramouche had situated them back under the covers and curled his limbs around Francis.

“Do you still believe that, babe?” Francis let out a harsh laugh before shaking his head.

“You’re right. I’ve never … had the opportunity before. I’ve never been with someone. Hell, I’ve never met someone like you. And, well …” he swallowed hard, his fingers tight against Scaramouche’s back as he was, perhaps for the first time, very sure of what he wanted to say. “It … it seems like a waste not to enjoy it.”

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to SalaciousShipping and SapphireSins for allowing me to borrow Francis! You can find more information about Salacious Shipping's artwork here (https://twitter.com/salaciousships?lang=en). Thank you also to apple_08 for staying up during the 2 am writing sessions to give me feedback!


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